Chapter 8
Isabella laughed.
It sounded wrong.
Too high.
Too fast.
“You believe him?”
I stared.
“You had the key.”
“So?”
“Vivian reached the gate.”
“No.”
Luca said:
“Yes.”
She turned.
“You were outside.”
“I saw through the glass.”
“You were panicking.”
“I heard her screaming.”
Isabella's face twisted.
“Everyone was screaming.”
Luca continued.
“She called Charlotte's name.”
Silence.
Then mine.
I felt something hollow open inside me.
“What happened?”
Luca looked at Isabella.
“She told Vivian to stop.”
My hands curled.
“What?”
He swallowed.
“She said…”
Isabella shouted:
“Don't.”
I looked at Luca.
“Say it.”
His voice dropped.
“She said, ‘If you'd learned to stop digging, none of this would be happening.’”
Silence.
Every eye moved to Isabella.
She stopped pretending.
Her expression became hard.
Defiant.
“You want me to apologize for not dying with her?”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“I want the truth.”
“She made choices.”
There.
Blame.
Always the victim's fault.
“She went back inside.”
“For Charlotte.”
“She stuck her nose into Marcus's business.”
“For me.”
“She threatened everyone.”
“Because you were betraying us.”
Isabella's voice rose.
“She could've walked away!”
Luca whispered:
“She tried.”
Isabella turned.
He continued.
“She reached the gate.”
Silence.
I looked at the brass key in Isabella's hand.
“You could have opened it.”
Her face hardened.
“Yes.”
A collective breath left the room.
Finally.
Truth.
“You let my wife die.”
“No.”
She stared.
“I refused to save someone who had spent months trying to destroy everything.”
I couldn't speak.
Isabella kept going because cruel people often mistake silence for permission.
“Vivian thought fear made her important.”
“She was right.”
“She cried.”
“She was trapped.”
“She begged.”
“She was dying.”
“And?”
That word.
Small.
Monstrous.
And.
I stared.
Isabella lifted her chin.
“She had spent months turning you against everyone.”
“No.”
“She made you close routes.”
“Yes.”
“She made you distrust Marcus.”
“I should have.”
“She made you think being cautious was noble.”
“It was.”
Her face twisted.
“You chose her every time.”
There.
Not politics.
Not business.
Jealousy.
Raw.
Old.
“You hated her.”
“Yes.”
The word came clean.
No hesitation.
Marcus whispered:
“Isabella.”
She snapped:
“Shut up.”
Then looked at me.
“Yes.”
“I hated how she could call and you'd leave a room.”
My jaw tightened.
“I hated how she could cry and you'd listen.”
Silence.
“I hated how Charlotte was born and suddenly nothing else mattered.”
I stared.
“You wanted her life.”
Isabella smiled.
“I have it.”
The gallery froze.
My engagement ring on her hand.
My home.
My daughter.
My bed.
For two years.
She had stepped into Vivian's place after letting Vivian die.
Marcus looked sick.
Even he.
Good.
Then Isabella looked toward the stairs.
“Charlotte would've forgotten her.”
My entire body went still.
“What?”
“She was one.”
Isabella shrugged.
“She should have.”
“But she didn't.”
Her face darkened.
“No.”
Because Bunny remained.
Letters remained.
Charlotte remembered fragments.
A smell.
A voice.
Her mother's rabbit.
And Isabella had spent two years trying to erase what a child held onto.
I stepped closer.
“You thought becoming my wife would finish it.”
“Yes.”
Finally honest.
“Then Charlotte found the letters.”
Silence.
“And you put her in a wall.”
Isabella smiled coldly.
“I gave her opportunities.”
“What opportunities?”
“To tell me where the rest were.”
“She is three.”
“Old enough to remember hiding places.”
Luca stared at her.
“You really haven't changed.”
Isabella turned.
“You're alive because I let you be.”
Silence.
Another slip.
I looked at Luca.
His face changed.
“What does that mean?”
Marcus closed his eyes.
Isabella realized.
Too late.
Luca whispered:
“After the fire…”
He looked at me.
“Marcus wanted me gone.”
I turned.
“And Isabella stopped him?”
Luca nodded.
“Why?”
He stared at her.
“Because she needed someone to blame if William ever found out.”
There.
May you like
Isabella had kept Luca alive as insurance.
A scapegoat waiting in my own warehouse.
